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RILEY

“Did you catch the game last night?”

I don’t need to ask Imani which game she’s talking about. My bestie is as hockey obsessed as I am, and because her brother’s one of the best defensemen on the Eastern U team, she watches every game.

“I did. Jacob needs to enroll in anger management classes before he does something that puts him in jail.”

“I don’t often sympathize with players of the opposing team, but that hit Richardson took…” She shakes her head. “I didn’t think he was going to get up.”

“Hockey boys are tough as old boots, but Jacob needs to do something to take the edge off his temper.”

“Jacob does something most nights that’s supposed to take the edge off all men’s tempers.” Imani creates a circle with her thumb and forefinger and mimes vigorous intercourse. “That man has a revolving door of puck princesses offering to help him score again and again and again.” She rolls her eyes in mock ecstasy.

My cheeks heat, which isn’t unusual. My skin is traitorous and shows everything I’m thinking and feeling in various shades, from a soft pink flush to a full-on scarlet raging blush. Imani’s beautiful, warm brown skin never lets her down like mine.

“Yeah, well, scoring points off the ice isn’t as important as on the ice.”

The wind gusts, whipping up the fallen leaves that tumble around our feet like orange and brown confetti, and thankfully cools my complexion before Imani notices.

“Speaking of ice, did you catch Icing the Cake last night? The dick cake…” Imani splutters with laughter. “The way she sliced through it at the end like a friggin’ circumcision.”

“She’s funny, I’ll give her that.” I smile at the memory and my friend’s response. Creating content for my channel isn’t easy, but it sure is fun. Keeping it a secret from people I trust is harder, but my novelty hockey-cake content was never supposed to be as big as it’s become, and as much as I love it, I don’t want it to affect my chance at a serious sports journalism or social media career.

“I wonder if Jacob’s seen it. Do you think he winced at the dick-cake slicing?” I say.

“I think he’d probably be proud. Big dick energy and all that.”

I’m keeping two secrets from my best friend, and neither feels good. The hockey cake channel doesn’t seem so bad. What’s worse is that she has no idea Jacob, Shawn, and Hayes Drayton, the triplets who terrorize the ice for our college team, used to be my stepbrothers. Well, our parents used to cohabit back when the Drayton brothers were three angry, rebellious thirteen-year-olds with something to prove, and I was a shy, chubby ten-year-old with frizzy hair and glasses who kept her head in a book so they wouldn’t notice her. It was awkward living in a house with strangers, and when my dad finally realized their mom wasn’t the one, I was grateful to see the back of them. Not before I overheard them laughing about my appearance, though. That part still twists my insides and fills me with indignant embarrassment.

So far, I’ve avoided running into them on campus. Freshmen are basically invisible to seniors, and curvy social media journalism enthusiasts are totally invisible to hockey gods. So, other than featuring them on my secret channel and watching their games from the cheapest seats or on TV with my dad, they have no idea we attend the same university.

Clutching my long pink wool coat closer around my body, I keep pace with Imani, whose strides are longer and whose tall, lean body must be half my weight. She glances at her watch. “We’re running late.”

Despite the cold weather, I start to sweat. The Red Devil bar is off campus, and neither of us can spare money for a cab. By the time we get there, I’ll be redder than their signature cocktail and need another shower. I manage to shrug off my coat and then grimace at how ridiculously exposed I am in my clingy black dress.

Imani grins. “That dress is smoking.”

“You think?”

“You know it is. You’re going to be beating them off with sticks.”

She’s sweet as cherry pie for trying to boost my confidence. The truth is, men do approach me, but never those I’m interested in. I have champagne taste and a beer budget. Good-looking, athletic men like good-looking, athletic women. It’s just how it is, and why I’m still carrying around my V-card.

The bar comes into view just as I think I’ll have to throw in the towel and throw out my shoes. The high heels bite into my feet like starved piranhas.

On the door, a bouncer gives us a slow once over. “You got ID?”

“Sure.” Imani pulls her fake ID from her bag while I rummage for mine. They’re good ones, and we haven’t had a problem using them before.

The bouncer gives us another slow look, his eyes lingering on my cleavage. I squeeze my upper arms closer to my body, nudging my boobs together as I plaster on a confident smile. I learned from an early age that men can become easily mesmerized by breasts, and it’s possible to use them to my advantage. There has to be some pros to being busty because the expense of buying big bras and the weight of hefting them around are two major cons.

“Enjoy your evening,” he says with a slight shake of his head, blinking away the temporary tit-fog.

“We will. Thank you,” Imani gushes. She needs to work on being less obviously grateful and more nonchalant.

I follow her into the bar, immediately swallowed up by the interior of pulsing lights, dancing students, and pounding music.

“Cloakroom,” I yell, and Imani leads the way, easing through the crowd. She has an easier time than I do, and I resort to using my shoulders to part the half-drunk revelers. It’s less glamorous-entrance and more linebacker-clears-the-field. Getting rid of my too-warm coat is a huge relief, as is the first sip of the sticky sweet red cocktail that’s the signature drink and every girl’s favorite.

“Soooo good,” Imani moans as her eyes scan the bar behind me. In her tight faux leather pants and black satin top, she looks like a runway model. It’s hard to maintain my self-love with such a perfect friend. “Oh, Malik’s here.”

I swivel on my heels and find Imani’s gorgeous older brother weaving his way toward us. Behind him, gathered around a hive of blonde, blue-eyed puck bunnies, is the rest of the Eastern U hockey team, including my ex-stepbrothers. My eyes meet Jacob’s icy blue stare, and a shiver-inducing cold sensation cascades down my spine. The content I posted last night is still fresh in my mind. The footage of him raging on the ice, throwing punches, and body-checking his opponents gave me a very different feeling when I was alone, warming parts other men don’t seem able to reach, but coming face-to-face with him in public fills me with unease. I don’t want to be recognized as the little girl he and his brothers shamed for her appearance. And I don’t want anyone to figure out that I’m the brains behind Icing the Cake .

Next to him, Shawn leans in to say something, but Jacob continues to stare at me. With his blond hair flopping messily and his ropey forearms encircled by thick reptile tattoos, he seems ready for trouble. Shawn is less aggressive looking, with an easy smile that he turns in my direction when his brother doesn’t respond. My expression must strike him as weird because his mouth quirks in one corner, and his eyebrows make a quizzical V. I turn away, finally coming to my senses just as Malik reaches us, leaning in to kiss his sister and then me.

“You girls got in, then.”

“Did you ever doubt me?”

“They’re usually strict here.” He grins down at me with soft, caramel eyes that could melt panties off a nun and a white-toothed smile like the sun coming out after an eclipse. Jesus, these two have outstanding genes. “That’s a killer dress, Riley. You on the hunt for some man candy?”

“Damn, Malik.” Imani sucks more of the drink through her straw, hollowing her cheeks. “What the fuck is man-candy?”

“I don’t know.” He laughs, pressing his broad palm over his flat stomach. His shirt clings in all the right places, accentuating rounded pecs and a waist so narrow that the corset-wearing Victorians would be jealous. “Isn’t it the kind of thing you girls talk about?”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

I lean in, inhaling his spicy cologne. “Well, it is sometimes.”

Imani snorts. “There’s nothing sweet about any of the men in this place.”

Malik looks around, dragging his gaze over the huddle of his teammates and into further corners where other students from Eastern have gathered. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“I’m sweet,” a deep voice rumbles behind me. I freeze because I know who it is without turning. Jacob Drayton, star forward and NHL draft favorite. I’ve watched enough of his interviews to identify his deep baritone without requiring visual confirmation.

“You salty as fuck, Jay,” Malik says.

“Hey, Jacob.” Imani grins at him in a totally relaxed way. She knows him from hanging out at her brother’s place, and Malik has marked him as off-limits, so there’s no flirtation between them. Her preference is always for tall, dark, and handsome anyway, so Jacob wouldn’t have a chance.

“Hey, yourself.”

I don’t turn because I don’t want Malik to introduce me. This is my worst fucking nightmare.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I blurt out and dash between Imani and Malik, catching her curious expression as I pass. I’m halfway to the restroom when a hand grips my wrist.

“Hold up,” Imani says. “What’s got your panties in a knot?”

“Panties in a twist,” I correct.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine. Just worried that Aunt Flo might be on her way,” I lie.

“Oh, shit.”

I shoulder my way through the doors, hoping that the bathroom will be cooler than the bar, but I find the opposite to be true. In the stall, I inhale deeply and hold it, pressing my back against the wall. I don’t even need to pee, but I go through the motions, delaying having to face Imani when I’m deceiving her. Maybe I should just tell her the truth, but then I’d have to admit why I don’t want the Drayton triplets to know who I am, and recounting their embarrassing criticism would hurt as much now as it did back then.

She’s waiting for me by the sink. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I wash my hands under cold water. “False alarm.”

Her assessing brown eyes study me. “You sure that’s all it is?”

“I’m sure.” I meet her gaze with my own, keeping my expression mild, even though my heart is beating double-time.

“I think your ass in that dress did warm, fuzzy things to Jacob Drayton.”

“The alcohol has gone to your head,” I scoff. “No way am I his type. I’ve seen the girls he takes home.”

“A man can eat burgers every day. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t recognize steak when he sees it.” She grins broadly, flashing her perfect teeth.

“Are you seriously comparing me to steak?”

“I’m just saying that he was looking at your ass like it was the Stanley friggin’ Cup.”

“You’re crazy.” I dry my hands on a paper towel and focus on my reflection. This dress really does cling in all the right places, giving me better proportions, and the twist at the front glosses over my belly and enhances my breasts. I should get it in another color.

“I tell you what. I’m gonna hang with Malik, and you go to the bar for a few minutes. Let’s see who’s right.”

“You want to dangle me out there like bait?”

“I want you to understand that Jacob Drayton, that fine, fine man, is going to come for you.”

“Maybe I don’t want him to. The guy’s a serious man whore. Like, serious. If anyone on this campus can be accused of having community dick, it’s him.”

“Athletes need an outlet. They’re buzzing with testosterone. Malik’s the same. As long as they aren’t breaking hearts or spreading diseases, and everyone’s having fun, what’s the problem?”

We used to be stepsiblings.

He used to be a little shit and has grown into a massive asshole.

I’m a virgin, and that’s not what a man like Jacob Drayton would be into.

“I guess there isn’t one,” I lie, sweat beginning to curl the hair around my face. If there was a way of leaving this bar without ruining Imani’s night and having to lie to my best friend even more, I would, but I can’t. Thankfully, I know what she’s saying is a load of bullshit. Jacob Drayton is as likely to want to get between my legs as he is to want to hang up his skates.

“You need to have some fun. Let him worship at your altar. If the rumors are true, he knows how to use that huge stick he’s got between his legs just as well as the one he smacks the puck with.”

For an unknown reason, my mind conjures an image of a naked Jacob, using his giant dick to hit pucks into the net. I don’t share the unpleasant and strangely arousing fantasy. Some things need to stay trapped inside my very warped mind. “Gross.”

We both burst into laughter as the restroom fills with a stream of drunk girls giggling about how hot the hockey team is.

“Jacob’s mine tonight. You wait and see,” a petite blonde says to her brunette friend.

“I’ll take Shawn. He has the prettiest smile.”

“Who’s taking Hayes?”

The group looks around, but no one volunteers. “He never goes home with anyone,” the brunette says with a shrug. “No point in wasting good flirting.”

I brush past them, not waiting to hear more, angry for no good reason. They’re just women talking the same way that men have for eternity. But I don’t like the way they objectify Jacob and his brothers, and I wonder why Hayes is known for being more discerning when it comes to his hookups.

“Good luck,” Imani calls and disappears into the crowd before I can object.

The lights flash in time with the music, turning the dance floor into a pulsing rainbow of sweaty writing bodies. At the bar, Daryl, the barman, is mixing more Red Devil cocktails, and there’s a free stool at the end just waiting to accept my ample ass. I glance around but the coast is clear, and I imagine the girls from the restrooms have already sunk their eager claws into Jacob and his brothers.

Before I can order another drink, a shadow looms over the bar from behind me, and I turn to find Jacob Drayton in all his imposing glory.

Jacob Drayton, who’s bound for NHL superstardom.

Jacob Drayton, whose name rests on the lips of women who are far more deserving of his attention than me.

Jacob Drayton, who was a mean little shit.

Jacob Drayton, who isn’t supposed to be interested in me.

“You’re standing a little close there, bud,” I say, meeting his icy blues. This close, they make his eye sockets look almost empty, like a weird alien or android in a sci-fi movie. It doesn’t take away from his beauty, though. With one rake down his body, my vision blurs at his perfection; tight black shirt stretched over a very nice chest, broad shoulders that obliterate the view of the club behind him, bulging arms constricted by intricate serpent tattoos that look like medieval armor, and strong thighs that power some of the fastest skating I’ve ever witnessed in real life. For all my denial, Jacob Drayton flicks a switch on my arousal that makes me instantaneously heavy and achy between my thighs, and a little lightheaded, truth be told.

He grins knowingly, flashing one dimple. “Most women enjoy sharing my body heat.”

“Well, I’m not most women, so back yourself up.”

His straight, sandy brown eyebrow rises, and an amused glint lights up his eyes. When he smiles, the darkness leaves his face, but it’s a calculated shift, not a genuine one because when my hand rests against his rock-hard, very warm chest to nudge him back, his eyes narrow.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Miss I’m-not-interested-in-players. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, you’re interested.” He leans in closer, staring into my eyes. “Your pupils are wide and…” His gaze zeroes in on my mouth. “Your lips are parted.” He presses a finger to my bottom lip, leaving it there for a few seconds. “And you’re flushed.”

I pull back, putting the last bit of distance between us that I can manage without falling off my stool. “It’s darker than Satan’s armpit in here and hotter. And my mouth is gaping at your arrogant ass.”

Undeterred, he rests a hand on the bar, so close to my boob that his heat and strength radiate through the clingy fabric of my dress. “I bet if I ran my hands between your thighs, you’d be wet for me.”

“Jesus,” I gasp, folding my arms across my chest. His eyes drop to my mega cleavage like a sniper zoning in on a target. “You really don’t have a problem with self-love, do you?”

He grins like I just gave him a compliment. “You know, you look familiar. Have we fucked?”

“Way to make a girl feel special.”

“Yeah, I’d remember if I fucked that sweet ass.”

“You okay here?” Daryl asks from behind the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “I’ll take another Red Devil and some hockey jackass repellent spray.”

Behind Jacob, two other enormous figures loom, coming into view over his shoulders. He stands taller, putting distance between us so I can finally breathe.

“You striking out over here?” Shawn asks, cocking his head to one side. When we were kids, he’d always wear his hair longer, as if he wanted to distance himself from his brothers and find some individuality. Now, the major difference between them is Shawn’s lack of arm tattoos and the scar that bisects Jacobs’s right eyebrow. Oh, and the butterfly stitches that are currently holding the skin of Jacobs’s cheekbone together after his punch up on the ice.

“She looks familiar, right?”

“She? You didn’t even get a name yet.”

Jacob blanches at his brother’s snickering. I guess his ego isn’t as bulletproof as he’d like people to believe.

“She’s playing hard to get.”

“Not playing.” I suck my cocktail through the black plastic straw, groaning at the deliciousness of it, and pull out my purse.

“You didn’t even buy her a drink? Losing your touch?” Hayes says. His voice is a lower rumble, and his shoulders out-bulk his brothers by a couple of inches. He’s like the cuckoo in the nest who stole the most food and outgrew the rest of the baby birds. With shorter hair and a bruise the size of my fist on his neck, he exudes a roughness that I didn’t expect. As a kid, Hayes was the quiet one with the watchful eyes. He’d try to keep up with his brothers, but he always lagged behind.

Jacob’s eyes flash like frozen steel. “No point investing in a woman if she isn’t going to put out.”

“Oh my god. You’re the absolute worst.” I grab my change from Daryl and slide off the stool. “I don’t need or want you to buy me a drink. I’d rather choke on a dick.”

“If you’re offering…” Jacob rests his hand on his belt.

And this is the man that the majority of women at this university, and some of the men, are vying for. They can have him.

“Let me just reiterate something to you, Jacob Drayton. I know who you are, and I don’t like it. So leave me the fuck alone.”

Even in my heels, I’m nearly a foot shorter than him, but I square my shoulders and draw myself to my full height. He’s still grinning like he’s Teflon, and my words are sliding right off his shiny, perfect surface.

“Shiiiit,” Hayes groans. “She kicked you in the nuts, dude.”

“There isn’t a challenge I haven’t beaten, girl-with-a-cleavage-deep-enough-to-titty-fuck my whole dick. Enjoy standing because I’ll get you on your back one way or another.”

“Starting to sound rapey, Jacob.” I turn my finger in a circle, pasting on my most bored expression. “It’s time to wrap it up.”

I stride around the wall of obnoxious hockey gods, spotting Imani grinning at me from her observation post on the other side of the dancefloor.

For all my bravado, my heart is racing like a jackhammer, and my head swims like I might faint.

It turns out that Imani was right, but the attention of the Drayton triplets is the opposite of what I want.

And I have a feeling this is going to be a very long night.